


The Politics of Dining: A 'Fuzzy Duck Smell' Story

by Chicklet_Girl



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-18
Updated: 2009-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chicklet_Girl/pseuds/Chicklet_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Choosing a restaurant gets a little complicated once you're a duckling-parent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Politics of Dining: A 'Fuzzy Duck Smell' Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DevilDoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilDoll/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fuzzy Duck Smell](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2759) by Devildoll. 



> Birthday fic for the wonderful **devildoll** , who made me laugh out loud in the school library with [Fuzzy Duck Smell.](http://devildoll.livejournal.com/697780.html) This is an unauthorized use of that universe; however, if you sue me for copyright infringement, I'll be forced to put your bra in the freezer when we're on vacation 17 days from now. Beta by **hwmitzy** , although I made some changes after she read it, so blame me and not her. The title is a play on the song title "Politics of Dancing," by Re-Flex.

Long ago, John had decided there was a special kind of fatigue that resulted from sitting through meetings. Six hours of debriefings at Cheyenne Mountain equaled utter exhaustion. Rodney looked equally drained, so the science meetings must have been as deadly as the military ones were.

They got in their rental cars just before dawn and John followed Rodney to his condo, where they dropped their duffels in the living room, left their clothes in a heap on the bedroom floor, and crashed.

They woke up a few hours later and had loud, fantastic sex in the dim grayness created by the sunlight creeping around the edges of Rodney's blackout shades. (Rodney explained, "Working at SGC screwed up my sleep schedule so much, I was shopping for groceries at two a.m. and eating breakfast at four in the afternoo-- oh god, *right there* --"

Afterward Rodney fell asleep again, looking a little too smug for John's liking, and John dozed off, too, wondering if the sex had been so good because they could be loud, or because they were in a bed actually built for two people that didn’t have a stupid little ditch right down the middle. He figured it was some of each.

John opened his eyes when he realized he was being jostled out of bed. "We have to go get something to eat right now or _I will die_ ," Rodney said, pushing John toward the bathroom. "Why didn't we stop for groceries?"

"Because we'd been in briefings for six hours, after eighteen days on the _Daedalus_ " John said, turning on the shower and stepping inside. He could hear Rodney's voice over the water, ranting about how stupid it was to have thrown out all of his non-perishable food before shipping off for Atlantis, and it was good he had a few powerbars stashed in his bag, or John would have been calling an ambulance right about now.

Awhile later, John walked into the living room, and Rodney stopped talking in mid-sentence, just staring. "What?" John asked, looking down at his clothes and running a hand over his hair without actually touching it.

"It's just, um, you look really nice," Rodney stammered, pointing the remote and shutting off the TV.

"It's jeans and a sweater," John explained. Had people started dressing differently since the last time they'd been on Earth? And how would Rodney even know, anyway?

"I'm just not used to seeing you in civilian clothes. You don't wear them very often."

"But it's okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's -- oh, stop being such a girl. We need to go."

"Sure." John was getting kind of hungry himself. "I read about this new place called Margaux."

"Where'd you read about restaurants in Colorado Springs?"

"Hey, I *am* capable of using the Internet, I just choose not to most of the time."

"Good, it's a waste of time," Rodney said, picking up his keys and opening the door, like he never spent his leave ranting about god knows what on physics blogs and trying to avoid _Doctor Who_ spoilers.

John strolled into the hallway. "Although I did take a quiz once that said I should refer to my breasts as Gin and Tonic."

Rodney rolled his eyes and turned to the lock the door behind them. "That's ridiculous. You don't even --"

"-- like gin. I know. Crazy, huh?" John could feel Rodney’s exasperated look roll right off his back.

********

Rodney drove because he actually knew where Margaux was based on the address John gave him from the website. The sky was a clear, sharp blue edging to a softer navy in the East as the sun went down, and it was warm enough to ride with the windows open. Both of them were quiet, watching the scenery. John always forgot how many people there were here until he saw them walking and laughing and everything. A man scooped up a little girl and put her on his shoulders, wrapping his hands around her ankles to keep her steady. John remembered seeing someone do that on P7J-331, and something inside him twisted a little bit.

"Huh," Rodney said absently as he backed the car into a spot on a street John didn't know. "Does your ATA gene affect parking spots in non-Pegasus galaxies?"

"Not as far as I know. Why?"

"We're three doors away from the restaurant at six o'clock on a Saturday night."

"It's Saturday?"

"Yes, which I didn't realize until I turned on CNN back at my place. You'd think someone at SGC would have mentioned which day of the week it was."

"It probably didn't occur to them we wouldn't know," John said, and ignored Rodney's eye-roll.

Margaux was small and crowded, but not overpoweringly loud. They hadn't thought to make reservations, and the hostess was unaccommodating until John smiled and said softly, "I'm shipping out in a couple of days, and I don't know when I'll be able to come back. Is there anything you could do?" The hostess looked from John to Rodney (who somehow knew to be on his best behavior for the next three minutes) and checked her clipboard again. "I had a cancellation a few minutes ago. Please follow me," she said through a knowing smile.

They were settled with menus and lemonless water near the back of the place when the trouble started. Rodney looked up from his menu and said, "We can't eat here."

"Why not?" John was thinking about the steak au poivre, because _steak_ , and the pommes frites, because _potatoes_ and also the chocolate mousse because it was fun to watch Rodney close his eyes in something other than sheer frustration with the stupidity surrounding him every day of his life. Although the sheer frustration part was pretty entertaining, too.

"They serve duck a la l'orange."

"Well, yes, it's a French restaurant."

Rodney gasped. "I -- how can -- it's _duck_!" he whisper-shouted.

"Oh," John managed, because it hadn't really occurred to him before. "But that was in Pegasus...."

"And also they have foie gras!" Rodney continued, like he was a low-volume version of Khrushchev at the UN and was about to beat on the podium with his shoe.

"Isn't that goose liver?" He needed to get Rodney to calm down, because they were starting to attract curious glances.

"A goose is just a big duck. We can't eat here." Rodney was very calm as he put down his menu, pushed back his chair, and walked toward the front door.

John put a couple of bills on the table for the server's efforts (she was standing a few feet away, holding the bread basket and looking rather confused), apologized sincerely to the hostess ("An in-person cancellation, I'm sorry"), and then stood on the sidewalk, looking for Rodney.

He found him leaning on the car. "Are you okay? We can try someplace else."

Rodney nodded and set off down the sidewalk. "There are some places over here."

John stopped in front of a Chinese restaurant and things looked promising (Szechuan beef!) until Rodney, lips pressed together, pointed to the sign in the window that read, "Peking Duck Our Specialty!"

A few doors down was Cannon’s, which called itself “an American bistro,” whatever the hell that was. The menu posted by the door was relatively short, and things looked good until Rodney pointed to the line about “duck confit” and walked away without saying a word.

They went around the corner and suddenly Rodney wheeled away with a shout and threw up his arm to cover the side of his face as they walked past an Asian grocery store with a line of plucked, noosed ducks hanging in the window. John caught up with Rodney and put his arm around Rodney's shoulder, guiding him into an alley.

"Look, look, we'll find another restaurant, okay? Everything's fine, just calm down," because Rodney really was looking not so great, with short panicky breaths and a wild, unhinged look in his eye.

They stood in the alley, John's hands on Rodney's shoulders, for a couple of minutes, while Rodney took some deep breaths. He tilted forward and rested his forehead on John's shoulder. "It's --" He let out a long sigh. "John, I laid eggs. That had ducklings inside them."

"I know. That was something, huh?" John rubbed a slow circle over Rodney's shoulder blades.

"And then I come back here, and there are so many people and they don't _know_."

"About the eggs and the ducklings? Because we didn't send out birth announcements or anything."

"About the 'gates, and the Genii. The Wraith. These people have no idea what the hell’s going on, and I mean, I was always different from everyone, you know, my incredible intelligence and all, but now I’m a _freak_.”

“You’re not a freak.”

“Eggs! Ducklings!”

“Okay, okay. You’re… unusual. Which you’ve always been.”

“Oh, _unusual_. Wow, thanks.”

“Do you really want to be _usual_? Normal? I can pilot a spaceship with my mind. That’s not normal, Rodney. But it’s pretty fuckin’ cool, right?”

Rodney hmmed a little. He seemed slightly mollified. John, however, needed to eat something. “Still hungry?"

Rodney's look was scornful, which John figured was progress. "C'mon.”

*********

“Honey Nut Cheerios or regular? Or granola? Do you like granola? I have to get the kind without the dried fruit in it, though, because you never know about citric acid.”

“Whatever you want, Rodney. Just as long as it’s not that All-Bran stuff that looks like little brown worms.”

“Gross. Also, I’m not sixty-five yet, so no bran anything. Okay, granola _and_ Honey Nut Cheerios. Anything else from this aisle?”

The cart already had three boxes of cereal in it, and there were the two Rodney was holding. If John didn’t get them into the frozen foods aisle in the next minute, Rodney would buy so much cereal his kitchen would look like Jerry Seinfeld’s.

“How about ice cream? Do you want any ice cream?”

Rodney took off like a bat out of hell, leaving John with the cart. He wheeled around the endcap and spotted Rodney with a pint of ice cream in each hand, looking intently into the freezer. John brought the cart to a stop behind Rodney and Rodney said, “Karamel Sutra? Or Vermonty Python? They still have the Colbert one, should I get it?” He balanced one pint on top of the other and used his other hand to open the freezer door.

John sighed. “Rodney, we still need to order the pizza and wait for delivery. Buy a pint in every flavor and let’s go.” Rodney’s face fell momentarily, which John hated even more than doing paperwork or having to discipline a marine back in Atlantis. He tried to recover. “It’s just that I’m really hungry – how’s your blood sugar?”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right. I really do need to eat something besides that old Snickers bar I found in the car – it was only a Fun Size one. That’s not enough to sustain me for long.” Rodney loaded all three pints into the cart and pushed it toward the checkout lanes.

Whew. Now they just had to stop the liquor store for real beer, because John was not going to drink 3.2 beer just because he could buy it in the grocery store.

*************

One hour later, they had groceries in the kitchen, a pizza box on the coffee table, and bottles of beer in their hands. Rodney had to put down his beer to support the point on his last slice of pizza, but he kept rambling on about Huey, Dewey, and Louie and their descendants, trying to figure out how many generations of ducks there were on the mainland by now, and whether there was enough genetic diversity to keep the population from inbreeding. Having finished his pizza, Rodney picked up his beer and dug at the corner of the label, peeling it off. “You don’t think ours ever, uh, you know, with each other, do you? Because that would just be…” he trailed off as John came over and straddled his lap, putting Rodney’s beer on the end table. “Rodney,” John said, cupping Rodney’s face in his hands and brushing his lips over Rodney’s mouth. “Stop talking about the kids.”


End file.
